


Thrush Singing

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Book 3: Flying Colours, Graçay, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut, mention of Brown/Hornblower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17142008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: "Nonsense," Hornblower says. "What is it you think I need of you? Two legs?"While in hiding at Graçay, Bush believes himself insufficient to Hornblower's needs. Hornblower is determined to prove to him otherwise.





	Thrush Singing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Clearing](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/443150) by thehappyreturn. 



> A sequel to thehappyreturn's [The Clearing](https://thehappyreturn.livejournal.com/21003.html), in which Bush sometimes fucks Hornblower out of his depressive fits; while at Graçay, however, when Bush is learning to walk again, he sends Brown to do it instead. 
> 
> I loved thehappyreturn's story and couldn't leave it be. (Also, its ten-year anniversary is upon us, and that was too much of a coincidence to pass up!) Lately I've been writing a lot of Bush being Hornblower's emotional support officer; this time I wanted Hornblower doing the supporting instead. Also, apparently, I wanted to write some smut. :-)
> 
> For thehappyreturn, who I hope doesn't mind my taking their premise and running with it. Thanks to colebaltblue for cheerleading, and to PhoenixFalls for beta.

In the aftermath, Hornblower feels clear-headed, clear-headed as he has not been for weeks. He can see every pock in the stone wall beneath his hands, every variation in the limewash upon it. The prickly scent of fresh wood shavings is strong in nostrils, cutting through the ancient must of horses and hay. Brown's breath whistles quick and sharp; fabric rustles as he sets his clothing aright. Somewhere outside a bird whistles and trills. 

"Sir," Brown says, deferentially. 

Hornblower says nothing. He lets his brow rest against the limewashed stone, cool and gritty against his forehead. 

There is a shuffled step against the bare dirt, then several more. A door shuts. 

The distant bird continues to trill.

Presently Hornblower retrieves his handkerchief and mops himself clean, the fabric rough against his prick. For a moment he is seared with longing for the scathing pulse of a wash-pump, the holystoned deck silken-smooth beneath his feet. That is a pleasure he may never know again, now that he has lost his ship. Only court-martial and ignominy await him in England, should he ever see her shores again. He hoists his trousers back around his hips and does up the breech-buttons. Then he, too, crosses the stable floor.

He steps out into daylight and for a moment he is nearly overwhelmed by the freshness of the air, heavy with scent as it brushes against his face. He stands there and breathes, taking in each individual leaf on the trees.

Away across the stable yard, Bush stands with a steadying hand on the fence rail, looking at him. 

For a long, terrible second two worlds are superimposed: it is Bush's hand, not Brown's, that meaningfully presses Hornblower's hand against his trousers-front, here in the stable and there again in so many low, dark cabins; it is Bush's voice, not Brown's, that instructs him to lean back—

Then there is only Bush standing at the fence rail, looking away toward the trilling bird, the clearing sky. 

Hornblower cannot move, overwhelmed with disappointment in himself. And more than that — _saddened_ — that Bush chose to send another man in his place. Hornblower stands and stares at the lonely figure that does not look back at him. 

Bush neither looks back at him, nor resumes his practice walking across the clearing.

 

Hornblower's unnatural clarity continues into the evening, his mind newly free of the all-embracing fog and lethargy that has consumed him these past weeks. The Comte seems even kinder and more gracious than he had before, his daughter even sadder and more lovely. The château and its residents, the furnishings, the meal — all have more detail and vibrancy than they have had in weeks.

But it is Bush that absorbs the bulk of Hornblower's attention. Bush is uninterested by the meal and makes no effort to follow the conversation. When their host attempts to draw him, the Comte speaking simply and clearly to accommodate Bush's limping French, Bush answers as briefly as manners permit. His reticence is not the canny circumspection of a junior officer speaking to his social superior, nor does it strike Hornblower as usual for their dinners with the Comte. But he cannot remember: he has not paid much attention to Bush these past weeks. 

When the company goes through after dinner, Bush lags behind. _So that no one may see him stumble,_ Hornblower thinks, and he, too, politely turns his eyes away. He accepts a brandy from his host as he listens to Bush's heavy, hitching step, the slight changes of course that suggest he is putting himself within reach of a chair, the doorjamb, the chaise lounge. At the card table, Bush's taciturnity is handily absorbed into the elegant silence of whist, and yet Hornblower is still aware that Bush is playing unusually badly, and is furthermore less self-conscious of his deficiencies than usual: there are none of the shame-faced apologies that Bush normally brings to the game. 

When the Comte bids them good night, Bush hangs back until both their hosts have left the room. Hornblower lingers to walk with him, but Bush only straightens and becomes more solid in his stance. "Good night, sir," he says with meaning, his eyes fixed on Hornblower for the first time since the afternoon. 

There is something immovable in that steady gaze.

Hornblower imagines judgement there, and feels an upwelling of shame — shame that he has been so oblivious to Bush's struggles; shame that such a base encounter should have such a profound effect on his mental state. Shame, even, that he allowed Brown to touch him in Bush's stead. He clears his throat uncomfortably. 

But Bush continues to wait, holding himself with the infinite patience of an experienced lieutenant who does not dream of having desires of his own. In lieu of a direct order to walk with his captain, Bush might stand here until dawn waiting for Hornblower to clear the room, he is that determined to keep his unsteady gait to himself.

It burns in Hornblower's breast that Bush should feel any embarrassment as a result of his wound. Bush is a superb man and officer, and the fire of that conviction flames up sharper even than Hornblower's shame. Hornblower failed his first officer at Rosas Bay, failed him again these past weeks at Graçay, and failed him once more today. No more. 

"Walk with me, Bush," he orders, and turns to the door.

There is a lengthy pause, but discipline is ingrained in Bush's very flesh. "Sir," he acknowledges, and with a faltering step, he accompanies Hornblower from the room.

It is a long, slow, halting walk back to their rooms. Hornblower keeps his hands clasped firmly behind his back, lest his own courage fail him and he should offer Bush his arm. Bush clutches the bannister hard on their climb to the first floor, but otherwise proceeds without assistance, breathing hard in concentration as they slowly process through hall, stair, and corridor.

At long last they reach Hornblower's door, and Hornblower can hear the relief in Bush's breath. Hornblower is almost sorry for what must come next.

"If you will please step in with me," he says, and pushes wide the door to his room.

Brown is waiting inside, ready to help him undress for bed. In his concentration on Bush, Hornblower had not anticipated Brown's presence, but of course he is here. For a moment Hornblower's skin crawls with the wrongness of it, that Brown should be here, _again,_ interloping in this moment. "That will be all, Brown," he grates out, and in his haste to be rid of the man, it comes out more sharply than intended. It does Brown a disservice: however mistaken his orders, Brown served them faithfully and — Hornblower ruefully admits — _usefully._ "I will see you in the morning," he says, to gentle the dismissal.

"Aye aye, sir," Brown replies. His thoughts are unknowable. He knuckles his forehead to Hornblower, turns to include Bush in the gesture. "Good night, sirs." 

Brown gone, Hornblower pauses to gather his thoughts. There is still time to turn back, to let Bush gather the shreds of his dignity around himself and leave. And yet the fact remains: Bush thought himself inadequate to Hornblower's needs. Faithful, splendid Bush, as capable an officer as any captain could wish, and whom Hornblower relies upon implicitly. It is not to be borne. 

Hornblower reaches for his stock, plucks at the knot in the fabric. "This afternoon," he begins, and sees Bush wince, his eyes drift to a point somewhere beyond Hornblower's shoulder. "You were correct that I needed to be taken out of myself. I deplore the method, but I recognise the necessity of it, and thank you for your service."

"Sir," Bush acknowledges, embarrassment in his cheeks. This has long been an acknowledged truth between them, but they seldom speak of it. Bush sees Hornblower's need and acts on it; Hornblower trusts Bush's judgement and acquiesces. It is seldom that Bush is wrong in his judgement; if anything, Bush usually errs in waiting too long to act. And yet Hornblower cannot blame him: even as much as Hornblower's unruly temperament compels him to action, he too would be reluctant to make advances on a superior officer.

"Your judgement was in error, however," Hornblower says, and Bush's eyes snap to Hornblower's face, seeking to know the nature of the rebuke even before it is given. Hornblower steps forward to close with him; Bush stands his ground, balanced on his good leg, steadying himself with his wooden one. Hornblower feels a surge of pride in his first officer, and reaches up to clasp his neck.

"Listen to me well, William," Hornblower says. Bush's heartbeat is visible in his throat; his breathing tight. Hornblower is determined that Bush not mistake him. "Never again send another man when you yourself are capable of coming to me."

Bush tries to pull back, but Hornblower holds him firm, and Bush yields to the grip, too well-disciplined to struggle. "Sir, my leg," he says, his distress clear, "I can't possibly—"

"Nonsense," Hornblower says. "What is it you think I need of you? Two legs?"

Bush shuts his eyes. " _Sir,"_ he pleads.

Hornblower kisses him. Bush does not resist, although Hornblower can feel the surprise and tension in his body. Gradually Bush moves to return the kiss, although he is still reserved, withholding himself.

"Shall I order you to roger me?" Hornblower asks, and Bush makes a noise of protest. "You've never yet failed a direct order."

"Sir, please, the leverage…" Bush entreats. "My balance… I can't—"

"Can't what? Take me against the bulkhead? There's a bed just there, large enough for us both. Roger me until I feel it in my back teeth? I'm sure you can."

That prompts a dark noise from Bush, an urgency in his kiss. His hands come to Hornblower's waist. But there is still a restraint in that light touch that maddens Hornblower. He has come to rely on Bush's confidence, his ability to lead when Hornblower's brain is not to be relied upon, to care for him and clear his head for him. But there is a hesitancy in Bush's actions now: doubt and shame both. Hornblower may live with shame and doubt every waking moment, but it is not right that Bush should do so.

"William," he says, and he lets his pride go, lets his need infuse his voice. Perhaps Bush will never be his first officer again — Hornblower does not have the influence to bring a one-legged lieutenant to sea, presuming even that Hornblower will survive his court-martial and be sent to sea again himself — but here and now, during this long confinement at Château de Graçay, during their coming escape down the Loire, he needs Bush. Bush _himself,_ not a stiff prick attached to another man. "William," he says again.

Bush's hands tighten on Hornblower's waist, and Bush bends to the kiss, his mouth more assured against Hornblower's. This, _this_ is what Hornblower needed. "Yes," Hornblower says against Bush's mouth, then pushes himself away, steps back toward the bed; Bush takes a lurching half-step to correct his balance. Hornblower continues to back, unwinding his stock from his neck. He undoes his waistcoat buttons, his shirt. The bed strikes the back of his thighs, and he sits, the air of the room cool against his throat and breast.

Bush stands and stares at him, his breath heavy, then under Hornblower's challenging gaze, he takes one hitching step toward the bed. And another. Hornblower cannot remove his eyes from Bush, cannot even entertain the idea that he should avert his gaze and let Bush stumble his way to the bed unobserved. He feasts his eyes on Bush, his conviction and determination, while Bush grits his teeth and makes his way across the short distance, one uncertain step at a time. 

Hornblower reaches for him just before he arrives: eager steadying hands on Bush's hips, the strap of the wooden leg under his palm, fingers on the muscles of his buttocks. He slides a hand forward over Bush's groin, in mimicry of Bush's more usual gesture of placing Hornblower's hand there. The mound of flesh is soft, but it swells gently under Hornblower's hand. He presses in the heel of his hand, strokes his thumb over the shifting, thickening flesh. Impulsively, he presses his face to it.

"Sir!" Bush exclaims, and Hornblower rubs his face against Bush's breeches, taking in the smell of him, feeling the soft nap of wool against his cheek, Bush becoming rigid beneath. This is a frippery they never have time for, constrained as they are by the exigencies of the Service: a sentry always just outside the door and the eagle-eared midshipmen who might arrive with a message at any moment. But now there is neither sentry nor duty, and the liberty of it causes Hornblower's hands to tremble as he undoes Bush's breeches. The fabric sags lopsided on Bush's hips, the fabric held in place on one side by the straps of Bush's leg, and then Hornblower is through Bush's small-clothes, too, Bush's cockstand proud against his cheek, and Hornblower turns his face to caress it, stroke it, taste it, draw it between his lips. Bush blows out an unsteady breath; his hands rove, settling nowhere, unwilling to take a liberty. Hornblower draws him close, takes him in deeper, uncertain of what he's doing, only knowing that he wants _more—_

And then Bush jerks and stumbles. There is a long, tortuous moment when Hornblower grabs for Bush's hips, trying to stop the inevitable. Bush twists, reaching for the bed, and only just lands heavily upon it. There is a _thump_ of hard objects striking; Bush cries out and jack-knifes over his wooden leg, outstretched before him — the stump itself is bent back behind as always, protruding and vulnerable. Hornblower's stomach goes cold. 

"Bush!" he cries, horror-struck at what he caused, and reaches for Bush's hand. "Bush!"

Bush breathes through clenched teeth, his fingers gripped tight on Hornblower's. "It's all right, sir," he grits out. He forces himself to straighten and takes another slow breath. He pushes something entirely unlike a smile onto his face. "It happens six times a day."

But never through Hornblower's greed and impetuosity. He releases Bush's hand. "I'm sorry, Bush," he says, the words stiff and wooden. 

Bush ducks his head. Hornblower reads shame in the movement, and his stomach twists with guilt. He had asked this of Bush, all but demanded it, despite Bush's attempts to demur. Bush turns away to tuck his softening prick back into his clothing, to rebutton his breeches, and Hornblower knows that if he permits this to end so, he will have done worse than nothing. If Bush leaves now, he will be confirmed in his opinion that he has become insufficient to Hornblower's needs. Hornblower cannot bear the thought.

"Stay," Hornblower says, and he reaches for Bush's hand again.

Bush looks down at his hand in surprise.

"You may leave if you wish," Hornblower says, the guilt choking the words in his throat. "But I would like you to stay. I will be more careful."

Bush shakes his head. "It was my damnable leg, sir."

"No, it was my carelessness. Do not argue with me."

Bush visibly swallows back whatever he was about to say. "Sir," he finally acknowledges.

Bush does not take back his hand. Nor does he leave. Hornblower turns to look at him; Bush is simply sitting there, watching him. Waiting for orders. "Sir," he says again.

Hornblower does not deserve Bush's esteem or loyalty, but it has nevertheless been entrusted to him. He caresses Bush's hand once, then puts his hand to the buckles of Bush's leg. "Let's get this off you." He will not need it in the bed, and without the encumbrance, Bush will have more mobility, be free to straighten his leg and better protect his stump.

"Allow me, sir," Bush says, and brushing Hornblower's hands away, he undoes the straps himself. He leans down over the edge of the bed to lay the leg aside, and Hornblower takes the opportunity to stroke the long, newly-freed thigh. Its musculature is wasted, not as powerful as his uninjured leg, and again Hornblower feels regret for his part in Bush's injury.

"Sir," Bush says, removing Hornblower's hand from his thigh. He takes Hornblower's face in his hands and kisses him, long and deep. Hornblower almost yields to the kiss before he realises what Bush is doing: caring for him, seeing his need and taking him out of himself. 

But Bush already saw to that, earlier today, in the stables, by Brown's hand. That is why they are here: not because Hornblower needs, but because Bush does. Hornblower puts a hand to Bush's neck, and takes charge of the kiss.

Then he pushes Bush back far enough to undo his stock, his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt. This is also something there is never time for, not when he or Bush might be called back to duty at any moment. Hornblower has not seen Bush's bare torso since… Since before Hornblower married, perhaps, the night he was assigned command of the _Hotspur,_ Bush shaving in candlelight in Hornblower's attic room. Those classic lines are gone: Bush's illness has ravaged the once-sculpted lines of his chest and shoulders. But there is still beauty there, more bittersweet and complicated than it was before. Hornblower kneels between Bush's legs and runs his hands over Bush's chest, his shoulders; the thin white scars from the _Renown_ , the dark fur of his breast. He pushes Bush farther back onto the bed, and runs his mouth where his hands had been, following the dark line of fur down his stomach.

"Sir," Bush says, half appeal, half protest, and Hornblower shushes him quiet. He eases breeches and smallclothes off Bush's hips and down his legs, careful of his stump. Bush kicks them free of his good leg, and Hornblower discards them off the side of the bed. Bush's prick lies half-hard in its nest of dark hair; it twitches and lengthens when Hornblower strokes it. 

"You're still dressed, sir," Bush protests, when Hornblower lies between Bush's thighs.

"Quiet," Hornblower tells him, and sets his mouth to Bush's prick.

He really doesn't know what he's doing, but it doesn't seem to matter. Bush hisses an inhaled breath. His hips tilt sideways, unbalanced by his mis-matched legs, and Hornblower leans to the side to accommodate the motion. 

The scent and taste of Bush speaks to Hornblower, speaks to the secret, dark places in his soul, places that he normally only knows when Bush has him pressed up against a bulkhead, his body driving hard against Hornblower's, surrounding him with the scent of his sweat and lust. Hornblower shuts his eyes and revels in Bush's scent, even as he tries to accommodate the awkwardness of Bush's shaft in his mouth. He remembers the well-practiced whores of Kingston, and how Bush had luxuriated under their ministrations, legs splayed wide and a firm hand in their curls: Hornblower _wants_ that, wants Bush to feel that same wanton pleasure, wants desperately to be better than Bush's poor last best. He wraps a hand around Bush's shaft and steals a glance upward: Bush's face is constricted in pleasure or distress, mouthing words that Hornblower can't hear. He sucks harder, is rewarded by a bloom of salt across his tongue, Bush's fist constricting in the bed clothes. Hornblower drives his other hand between his hips and the bed, diving inside his breeches, and takes himself in his fist. 

The touch of his hand on his prick, the taste of Bush in his mouth: it is too much, and he pulls back off Bush's prick, panting open-mouthed against his shaft. Bush groans weakly, and Hornblower mouths comfort along Bush's shaft. He could finish so easily like this, chasing the taste of Bush on his tongue, chasing Bush's pleasure and distress until Bush filled his mouth with his spend— Would it be luxurious, or would it be overwhelming? Hornblower doesn't know, and the not-knowing maddens him. Again, he mouths Bush's shaft, takes it back into his mouth for a few quick strokes. Bush twists and heaves, and Hornblower makes himself pull off again, pressing kisses of apology to the head as the shaft flexes within his grip. He _wants_.

But he had promised himself: this was about seeing to Bush's needs, about erasing the doubts that led Bush to send another man in his place. This is not about what Hornblower wants. He heaves himself to his knees, regretfully saying goodbye to Bush's prick. He takes in Bush's debauched form while he removes jacket and waistcoat, pulls his shirt over his head. Bush breathes harshly, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Hornblower. "Sir," he says, and there is such surrender in the syllable that Hornblower's heart trembles. Hornblower wants to consume him, be consumed by him, and every course of action seems entirely inadequate to his need.

"On your side for me," Hornblower says, and lurches off the side of the bed to remove his shoes, breeches, and stockings. He feels ridiculous, and yet Bush's eyes shine with the same admiration that they evidence on the quarterdeck.

"Which side, sir?" Bush asks, but he is already rolling to face Hornblower. It puts his injured leg up, which Hornblower suspects is to be preferred, but time will tell.

"That will do for now," he says, and retrieving a small jar of oil from his washstand, he insinuates himself on to the edge of the bed, his back against Bush's stomach. He lays down, and Bush makes room for him.

"Sir?" Bush says, and Hornblower can hear that the doubt is back again. He curses it. 

"Follow orders," he grits out. "You're going to roger me, if not this way than another, until I feel it in my back teeth."

"Sir, I'm not—" Bush begins, before he bites back the rest. "Aye aye, sir." His hand comes to rest on Hornblower's hip, and Hornblower can already feel how those strong fingers will curl around the crest of his hip, pull him hard onto Bush's cock. Hornblower presses back into Bush's hips, finds his shaft still slick from Hornblower's mouth, and experimentally rocks against it.

"Sir, if you'll allow me," Bush says, and then there's damnable fussing as Bush takes the oil and slicks them both with it. Hornblower is too impatient for this, but Bush is implacably stubborn about making sure Hornblower is well-slicked inside — and in truth, Hornblower is still sore from earlier in the day. Even the intrusion of a single finger is uncomfortable, but he has the patience for no more than two before he is scolding Bush to stop delaying and get on with it.

"Sir," Bush says, reproachful, but accedes to Hornblower's demands. Hornblower rocks back against Bush's prick, feeling it slide luxuriously between his buttocks, before managing to catch the tip against the rim of his arsehole. God, even that much pressure is too much, and yet he aches to take it all, aches to be pressed to the bed and _made_ to take it, the slow, inexorable slide of it within him, Bush's entire weight behind it. And yet he cannot feel Bush's weight in this position: lying back-to-front feels exposed and precarious and _not enough._

"Do it, damn you," he growls, pressing himself back against Bush, relishing the bright bloom of discomfort in his arse, even as he fears how much worse it might become. But he always was a coward.

Then Bush grasps Hornblower's hip in a strong hand, and the discomfort threatens to become outright pain. "Relax, sir," Bush says, and pushes no farther. Hornblower snarls in frustration. He gathers what traction he can on the narrow slice of bed in front of him, and then in a bright burst of overwhelming sensation, Bush is inside him, and it is both better and worse than it had been before. Hornblower pants, squirming on Bush's prick, waiting for the sharp ache of it to subside. 

"Sir?" Bush asks, stroking a hand over his hip.

"Damn you," Hornblower swears again, frustrated that Brown's earlier passage is preventing Bush's. "I don't want to feel him anymore. I want to feel _you."_

He feels the flex of Bush's prick in his arse, hears the noise Bush makes, and experiences a surge of anticipatory triumph. Bush clasps his hip again, and this time there is no gentleness in it: Bush presses in, sliding into him slick and smooth and implacably hard. It is altogether perfect and too much and not enough. Hornblower arches back, pressing himself onto Bush's cock, wanting more, wanting it all, thankful for the way the sharp, uncomfortable ache of it erases all other feeling. 

The only thing better would be to have Bush's weight behind it, to have Bush pressing him down to the bed. He reaches back with a foot to hook Bush's leg to get the leverage he craves, and feels Bush hiss and shift, bending his stump back out of the way. Then they are locked together, Bush's body taut behind his, and it is far better now. He rocks back against Bush, working himself on Bush's prick, his hand reaching for his own.

And yet it is not quite enough. He feels exposed, a part of him still outside of himself, watching, all too aware of the ridiculous figure he cuts, a post-captain being sodded by his lieutenant. _This is what the Articles of War proscribe,_ not below-decks bullying and monstrosities. The perversion of command and discipline, and no matter how he strains back against Bush, _he cannot get enough._

"Sir," Bush says, and then he is disentangling his leg from Hornblower's. Hornblower catches at Bush's hip in sudden panic. 

"Belay that, damn you," Hornblower orders, but for once Bush does not obey. 

"Sir, let me," he says, and withdraws completely from Hornblower's arse; Hornblower feels bereft and naked at his going, and the feeling twists into sudden fury. 

"Bush—" he warns, but a strong hand pushes at Hornblower's shoulder, rolling him to the face the bed. "Lie so, sir," Bush says, and something dark in Hornblower leaps in hope.

There is tugging and shifting, Hornblower trying to anticipate Bush's direction as Bush guides him away from the edge of the bed, facing into the mattress, legs wide. Hornblower is too eager to help, and Bush has to admonish him to _lie still, sir:_ Hornblower realises he was at grave risk of catching Bush's tender stump. Then Bush awkwardly climbs above him, and Hornblower is enclosed by Bush's arms, Bush's weight pushing him into the bed, and the dark thing in him becomes expansive, content and happy.

"I don't know if I can, sir," Bush says apologetically as he levers himself into position, and Hornblower can feel that he is lopsided, struggling for leverage. His prick drags across Hornblower's buttocks. Hornblower slides a knee up the bed, careful not to kick Bush's stump, trying to match Bush's angle. 

"Do your best, Mr Bush," Hornblower says magnanimously. Here at Graçay he has refrained from the formal language of the quarterdeck, but he feels that Bush could now use the bolster to his will that the formality provides. As a King's officer, Bush is not in the habit of failing his captain.

"Yes, sir," Bush acknowledges, and this time it has the strength of resolve behind it. Again, Hornblower feels a surge of pride in him.

It is awkward and precarious; the knee of Bush's injured leg slips on the mattress without the weight and leverage of a foot to back it. But Bush perseveres, swearing softly to himself, and then the tip of his prick catches on Hornblower's arsehole, and Hornblower presses up to take it. The slide of it within him is smooth and sweet and aching. Hornblower clutches the mattress and arches up against Bush's body, feels his weight heavy across his shoulders, pressing him down to the bed.

There is a muttered curse from above him, another shifting of Bush's weight — down to an elbow, Hornblower thinks, the slant of his shoulders now matching the slant of his hips — and then a hand grasps the back of his neck. Fingers knot tightly in his hair, ruthlessly holding him in place, and Hornblower does not want to hold back his moan of exultation. There is no need to hold it back, no sentry and no midshipmen to hear. 

"Lie _still,_ sir," Bush hisses, and Hornblower does his best to comply. And then Bush is moving in him, rogering him soundly, his prick up his arse and holding him tightly to the bed, and it is everything Hornblower ever wanted.

 _"William,"_ he groans, addled with lust. He is rewarded with a grunt of effort and an especially sharp jab to his arse.

It is halting and imperfect, Bush's weight heavy upon him as his knee slips again, his rhythm faltering as he hitches himself back into place. It is halting and imperfect and, oh, so sweet. Hornblower feels deliciously, gloriously _used,_ and he takes his prick in hand, vainly trying to match his rhythm to Bush's efforts. 

"I can't keep this up, sir," Bush warns, strain in his voice, and it does not matter, does not matter in the slightest, because Hornblower is already there, shuddering and spilling into his hand. He bucks up under Bush, groaning, as Bush tries to hold him down, and it is only Bush's superior weight that keeps Hornblower from toppling them both.

Hornblower pants under Bush, his mind heavy and wallowing, like a ship struggling under the weight of a wave that has swept across the waist. Every sense is sharpened, glimmering with attention. He can feel the shift of Bush's muscles across his shoulders, the damp heat of Bush's sweat against his skin. Wet curls cling to his back; a leg shifts against his own. Bush's fingers are loose on Hornblower's nape. Bush is panting heavily, waiting for a sign from Hornblower. 

Hornblower mops his wet hand on the sheet, reaches back to touch Bush's flank. "Finish," he instructs, still breathless. There is a sort of glory to Bush working himself to completion in him while every sense of Hornblower's is so heightened.

But Bush rests his forehead against the back of Hornblower's neck. "I can't like this, sir," he says, and Hornblower is flooded with feeling for his first officer. He should feel shame that he has asked so much, but he is so flooded with well-being that shame is only a vague memory. _Proprietary_ is what he feels. _His_ first officer, who would move mountains for him. He has never deserved Bush's faithfulness, and yet it is unquestionably his.

He pats Bush's flank again, a signal to move this time, and takes a sudden deep breath as Bush's weight lifts from across his shoulders. Bush withdraws from his arse, still hard, and Hornblower's arsehole feels very wrong without Bush's shaft to shape it. Bush disentangles his legs from Hornblower's, moving himself aside, and Hornblower rolls to face him, then shifts closer, out of the wet spot. Bush shifts back to make room. He is flushed and sweating, his weather-worn features craggy with fatigue, and Hornblower feels compelled to kiss him, to lavish affection on him.

"How do you want me?" Hornblower asks, but Bush shakes his head, unwilling to direct for his own sake. 

"I can finish like this, sir." His fingers curl lightly around his prick; he gives himself one quick stroke, and another. He is waiting for Hornblower's permission, but only just.

Hornblower is feeling strangely protective — protective and possessive, as well — and while he could turn his back and give Bush his arse again, the two of them front-to-back, only a small variation on how they have finished in the past, Hornblower lying quietly beneath Bush's straining body, listening and breathing and _feeling..._ They could, so easily, but Hornblower finds that he doesn't wish to turn away from Bush. He wants to watch. He wants to possess this, make this _his._

Hornblower puts his hand on Bush's prick, and Bush immediately withdraws his own, as simply and as readily as he yields the weather rail to Hornblower. There is an expectant tension in him, in his eyes fixed on Hornblower's face. Bush is unwilling to ask, and yet he craves, that much is obvious. Hornblower touches the shaft, feels its rigidity, the elegantly detailed structures underneath the thin skin. Bush's prick is still slick from Hornblower's arse, but not liberally so; Hornblower curls his fingers around it and gives it two quick, firm strokes, watches Bush's expression darken, his breath catch. Hornblower feels a pulse of satisfaction.

"Stay so," he instructs, and twists to find the discarded bottle of oil, spills some into his palm. This time when he closes his hand around Bush, Bush lets his eyes drift shut, frowning in concentration. He takes his lip between his teeth. Hornblower watches.

It feels curiously intimate, lying face-to-face like this, working Bush's prick for him, watching his small changes of expression. His breathing, the twitch of his hands. The push of his hips into Hornblower's grip. Hornblower experiments with speed and pressure and angle, reading Bush's face with the same attentive inquiry that he brings to the trim of a ship's sails. Bush is already tense with desire, his breathing tight and harsh; it will not be long.

" _Sir,"_ he groans, his eyes screwed tight, and Hornblower has to kiss him again. Bush's kiss is clumsy and uncoordinated, his attention absorbed elsewhere; it makes Hornblower smile. 

"Look at me," he says, and Bush opens his eyes, frowns as he struggles to bring Hornblower's face into focus. "Yes," Hornblower approves, full of pride and possession and protectiveness. But the feeling is quickly chased by indignation that Bush thought to cheat him of this feeling.

"Never again," he says, his hand tightening on Bush. "Never again send another man in your place. Do you hear me? I require _you,_ damnit—" 

Bush tenses, shuddering, bows in Hornblower's arms. He spills warm and wet over Hornblower's hand.

"—and _only_ you," Hornblower continues in a surge of triumph, ruthlessly working Bush through it. Bush's hand comes to Hornblower's wrist, steadying himself. His eyes are squeezed shut; he is lost in the surge of sensation. For a moment Hornblower, too, feels lost. 

Then Bush's expression flickers; his grip on Hornblower's wrist becomes more urgent. But Hornblower has already gentled his hand. Slows, stops.

And yet he is still full with feeling, panting as if it was he who had reached his climax. " _You,_ Bush," he says. "Do you understand me?" 

Bush looks at him; he seems dazed. "Aye aye, sir," he says a moment later, and Hornblower could not say if Bush has understood him, or if he is answering by rote. "I am to come to you, when you need someone," he adds in the quarterdeck protocol of repeating an order to confirm it.

"When I need _you,_ " Hornblower corrects. Bush frowns. He studies Hornblower.

"Yes, sir," he says at last, and Hornblower knows that he is being humoured, being treated with the concealed and tolerant disagreement accorded to eccentrics and captains. It is infuriating, but there is nothing to be done about it. But perhaps word and action is enough: Bush knows now that Hornblower requires _him,_ and that Hornblower will not accept another in Bush's place.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," Bush says, and hitches himself up to reach over Hornblower's legs, over the edge of the bed. He fishes for a moment and comes back with a shirt. He reaches for Hornblower's hand, still messy with Bush's seed.

This is what Bush does every time, cleans and tidies and straightens before tip-toeing away, but Hornblower yanks his hand away from Bush. "I can clean my own hand." The shirt proves to be Bush's own. Of course it is Bush's own shirt, Bush would never dream of using Hornblower's. Hornblower drops it back over the edge of the bed and fishes up his own shirt instead, and uses that to clean his hand. He touches Bush's hip, tilts him back, and cleans Bush's soft prick, too. He can feel Bush's confused gaze on him, but he is too absorbed by his task to care, too absorbed in the way the puckered skin of Bush's prick stretches and shifts as Hornblower pats at it, too absorbed in the lazy jump of Bush's flesh under his touch, too absorbed in the twitching contraction of Bush's balls, alive in their sack. 

Bush's prick is clean and yet Hornblower is still not finished with him, still too absorbed in the minutiae of Bush's body to release him just yet. He refolds the fabric in his hand, and begins wiping the sweat from Bush's chest and shoulders. He wants to taste, too, feel the salt and tang bloom on his tongue, but he restrains himself, contents himself with the touch, the sight, the scent of Bush. Bush watches him with wide eyes, and Hornblower steadfastly ignores him. He doesn't know how to explain his own desire to himself, let alone to Bush. He only knows that he is not done with Bush yet, not ready for him to go quietly back to his room. He puts the shirt aside, strokes his knuckles over Bush's breast, through the curls that have already begun to dry and stand free of his skin. He lays down, his hand on Bush's chest, and after a moment's indecision, Bush lays back, too, settling himself into the bed, his muscles going soft under Hornblower's hand. His hand comes up to cover Hornblower's.

There's contentment like that, in the steady rise and fall of Bush's chest, and Hornblower allows himself to drift, hyper-aware of Bush's breath in the still room, of the caress of Bush's fingers against his own.

It is with a squeeze of apology to Hornblower's fingers that Bush finally stirs himself, slides out of the far side of the bed. No quiet tip-toeing tonight, for the man is no longer capable of it: he hops heavily around the end of the bed, using the mattress and bed frame as a crutch. Hornblower rolls over and watches his progress, watches him bend down for his clothes and his leg, watches him dress. Necessity forces Bush to seat himself on the edge of the bed to don his breeches, and then to fasten his leg over all. The mattress dips and shifts as he moves; lifts, jiggles, and dips again. It is far more familiar, more intimate, than any of Bush's retreats in the past.

But Bush is not done; he stands and bends to the floor again, his false leg kicking out behind him, to gather Hornblower's clothes. 

"That's enough, Bush," Hornblower says; it's not Bush's job to care for his clothing. That job is Brown's, and there has been enough blurring of the lines between what is Brown's and what is Bush's. 

Bush glances at him, then drapes Hornblower's clothes neatly over a chair, constitutionally incapable of dropping them to the floor again. 

"Good night, sir," Bush says quietly, then leans down to extinguish the light. Hornblower has a clear view of his face, shadows stark under his jaw, before the dark rushes in, and there is only Bush's after-image in his mind's eye.

There is the heavy, hitching step of Bush crossing to the door; Hornblower can just make out the shift and hop of Bush's shoulders in the dark. Bush is tired, his step even slower than it was after cards earlier. Hornblower almost feels pity for him, to have so demanding a captain. It is a strange sensation to know that Bush takes only satisfaction in that. 

"Mind what I said," Hornblower calls when Bush reaches the door. It is unnecessary for Hornblower to emphasize his orders, not with Bush, and yet Hornblower feels compelled to make sure, one last time, that he is understood.

"Aye aye, sir," Bush replies, his hand on the jamb, and Hornblower sees the shift in his shoulders, hears the change in his voice. There is resolve there, and pride — pride in executing his orders, if nothing else. "I'll see to it personally."


End file.
